Marine K SBS

by Jay Garnet

  Within two minutes he was hanging seventy feet down, in the womb of the ocean, and the agonizing, hard pains began to recede as the pressure of the water around him and of the air inside his suit pushed the nitrogen bubbles back into solution in his blood and flesh.

  He heard a voice: this suit had a telephone. Above, there was someone who knew what he was doing. Between the two of them they established a margin of safety.

  It would take Mike over two hours to come back to the surface, resting every ten feet for progressively long intervals – ten minutes at sixty feet, fifteen at fifty feet – until the final thirty-five minutes at ten feet. For the time being, he was safe.

  He wondered again who his captor was, how he came to be there, how he knew Mike’s name. Questions, questions, and no answers. But at least the pain had gone. He was too exhausted to concentrate any more. During the last two stoppages he dozed.

  * * *

  By mid-morning he was back in the same cabin, with two sandwiches and a glass of milk in front of him. He had been given a clean shirt and some shorts.

  ‘Tired, Mr Cox?’ said the big man, who had apparently not moved from his position on the leather sofa since Mike’s first arrival on board. ‘But strong, huh? That’s good. Because you’re going down again in an hour.’

  Mike was drained of energy and emotion. Dead-eyed, he met the man’s gaze.

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ he said. ‘You want my coins, the least you could do is allow me time to recover.’

  ‘Time we do not have. And you know as well as I that your slight attack of the bends did no lasting damage.’ He sighed, as if confronting a difficult child. ‘You really have no choice. I can put you back down there by force, if I so decide. Must we start the same game all over again?’

  ‘Fuck you, mate. When do I find out what’s going on?’

  ‘Afterwards, Mr Cox, afterwards.’

  So Mike was taken to a cabin, allowed to rest and fed again – all under the gaze of one of the young Greek crewmen. For half an hour he heard nothing but the muffled, throaty throb of the engine and the rush of the bow-wave; felt nothing but the rise and fall of the boat; saw nothing but his room, for the porthole was curtained.

  As he lay, eyes closed, thoughts raced through his mind. His many questions would have to wait for answers. His most immediate concern was to ensure that his captor did not get all the treasure. He would have to bring up some coins, of course, but surely not all of them.

  It was an obvious enough idea, and was of course pre-empted by the big man himself. As Mike was being helped back into his suit, he said: ‘I want all those coins, Mr Cox. I want a running commentary on what you see and do. And two other things: firstly, I will allow you one in ten of the coins you retrieve. The more you bring, the more we both get. Secondly, after you come up, I shall make sure that no one will ever come back. As we leave, later this afternoon, we shall destroy the site. It would pain me to think of you, or anyone else, returning at some later date.’

  This time it was easy. The equipment was good, the tender experienced, the positioning spot on, the coins themselves easy to find. There were perhaps two hundred in all, each one solid gold. The vessel had probably been carrying the cash back home after a successful voyage. The amphorae had probably contained wine and oil for sale at home, wherever that was. In addition to the coins he found a dozen little ivory statues and two amphorae, almost intact, with traces of painting on them. He described his work over the phone link, as instructed, and sent up his finds in a cage dropped down to him. He saw no way of keeping anything for himself. He was trapped.

  By the evening he was up on deck again. The big man was as good as his word. Two crewmen stood at the stern and dropped a couple of charges. As the cruiser pulled clear, the surface of the sea erupted into two gouts of spray.

  Then there was an evening meal in the same darkened cabin. The big man joined him. He had changed into a white cotton suit, well tailored to his bulk.

  ‘You’re in trouble, big trouble, Mr Cox,’ he said. ‘I’ll spell it out for you. For starters, you’ve been exploring a wreck, with antiquities aboard, and clearly had no intention of reporting the find to the authorities. That could land you a hefty jail sentence.

  ‘But the real problem is that you’ve killed a man, Mr Cox. Not just any man, either. His name was David Kellogg, and he was the son of a very rich and very influential family in Boston. That could prove really very nasty. For murdering a foreign national you could be locked up here in Greece for a long time, pending extradition proceedings. If you were lucky you’d be tried back in the old US of A. It would take a while, and none of it would be pleasant.

  ‘The third reason why you’re in trouble, Mr Cox, is that my name is Milovan Krassnik.’

  ‘Krassnik!’

  The big man saw Mike’s expression.

  ‘Yes, siree!’ he said, in an overdone Deep South accent, smiling benignly. ‘You been layin’ ma little girl, Michael. May I call you Michael? And I’d say she was a mite young for that. What do you say?’ The smile disappeared from his face, leaving an expression of implacable malevolence.

  A number of things fell into place. Obvious, really. Sandra had seen the coin. She knew about the treasure. She knew Mike’s plans. And – with his permission, for God’s sake – had spilled the whole thing to her old man. The yacht that had been pulling out of the harbour as they left . . . Yes, now he remembered. Krassnik must have been shadowing them all the previous day, had them in telescopic view that morning, saw that Mike had gone down, guessed the wreck had been found, then tried to beat him to the draw.

  ‘You want my advice?’ Krassnik went on. ‘Don’t say a damn thing. You’re all wrapped up, and you know it.’ He grinned again, and bent forward, menacingly. ‘So listen, and listen well. I could kill you now. But that would not be in my interests. I have in mind a rather more productive relationship for us both. I have good connections. So, apparently, do you, and you are a very experienced diver. Here is the deal: you find statues, coins – anything I can sell. In return, I’ll look after you. Income, equipment, protection, especially protection. Think about it, Michael – but you will find you have no choice. You are, to the Greek government, a thief and a murderer. I have friends in many places. Much better to work for me and be rich, than risk the inside of a Greek jail . . . or worse.’

  ‘’Ow long do you think this . . . relationship will last?’

  Krassnik shrugged. ‘Who knows? Until we stop making money.’

  ‘And Sandra?’

  ‘Alexandra will forget you. My plans for her do not include a penniless adventurer from the slums of London. She needs wealth and power, you see. She will have them, and when she is ready . . . I see you are not disposed to argue. Very wise.’

  He leant across to a desk on his right, pressed a button on an intercom and said: ‘Ask Miss Sandra to come in, please.’

  It was the first indication Mike had had that Sandra was on board. She must have been kept as firmly under control as he himself had been.

  She had been crying a lot. Barefoot, wearing shorts and a white blouse, she would have looked quite delectable if she hadn’t also looked utterly broken. There was an ugly red mark on one cheek. Krassnik patted the sofa beside him, and Sandra sat, downcast. Then her head came up, and she looked at Mike.

  ‘It’s all my fault. I’m sorry,’ she said.

  Krassnik patted her knee.

  ‘My dear, that is not the first time you have seen me respond purely as a businessman. Do not pretend to be shocked. I needed information. You had no choice. You were not to know what I wanted to do. Do not blame yourself for what happened to your friend here.’

  ‘You’re a right bastard, Krassnik. What sort of father ’its ’is own daughter?’

  ‘I do, when she needs to be reminded of whose daughter she is and of her responsibilities. I have a position, have I not? Hmm?’

  ‘Yes, Daddy.’

  ‘Right. And I don’t send you to good schools
and have you meet the best people to have you playing around with asshole divers as soon as my back is turned.’

  He spoke quietly, but there was no doubt about his anger or the terror he inspired in Sandra. Mike felt the hair on the back of his head prickle. He had never been in the presence of someone so clearly used to exercising naked power. Beneath the veneer of smiles and politeness, Krassnik was a terror.

  He was like that for a number of quite simple reasons. He had been poor, an outsider, a member of a divided and weak nation. He grew up aching to be rich, to belong and to wield power. Wealth he had acquired. Status he was in the process of acquiring: it went with wealth; and he had married well, but Sandra was to complete the process for him. Power . . . well, power he preferred to exercise behind the scenes, internationally, in a way Mike was not to discover for several years.

  He had other interests, of course, of which supplying works of art was one. They were useful keys to various social and political doors; hence his professional interest in Mike.

  ‘If I hadn’t told him about your coin . . .’ Sandra said pitifully to Mike.

  ‘Come on, girl,’ Mike replied. ‘It was my fault for telling you about the thing in the first place.’

  She shot him a smile through her tears.

  Krassnik spread his hands and smiled as if to say, ‘Well, now! What was all the fuss about?’ but added: ‘You should both sleep now. For obvious reasons you will be in your own cabins. Do not try to leave, please. The doors will be locked, and my men have good ears.’

  They docked in Piraeus at dusk the next evening, with Mike and Sandra still in their cabins.

  The following morning a small delegation came aboard – a police officer and an American Embassy official with his secretary. Krassnik told Mike later that he had dictated statements concerning the unfortunate business with Niko and the young American, David Kellogg. Niko’s family would be adequately compensated, better than they would have been if he had died from diving too deep and too long; and the American family would be informed of their grievous loss. There would be questions, of course. But the answers would be convincing. David was an inexperienced diver . . . he insisted on going down . . . a deep wreck . . . his discovery of coins . . . his refusal to respond to signals . . . the attempt to raise him by force . . . the sharp coral . . . the cut pipe . . . the disappearance . . . appalling tragedy. Krassnik himself would go to Boston, offer condolences and be present at the memorial service.

  Mike stayed on in Piraeus, in the same room, this time with funds. He elected to sell his share of the coins – twenty of them – to Krassnik, who offered him $2000 in cash.

  His freedom was a mere technicality. Krassnik owned him. There was no way out. Flight would have meant his name being given to the Greek police, to the British police and eventually, he assumed, to Interpol. Life would not be worth living. Besides, there was Sandra. Her sudden removal enshrined her in his mind as an ideal. In erotic dreams, in the arms of other women whose names he could hardly remember, he summoned up the image of Sandra and that one supreme afternoon of lovemaking. He wanted her as he was never to want any woman again: and the only way back to her was through Krassnik.

  It seemed to Mike that the way to win a modicum of independence was to become a more equal partner in their one-sided relationship. To do that he would have to know more about Krassnik, would have to have some sort of hold over him and beat him at his own game.

  It would not be quick, for Krassnik could vanish into his own particular jungle without leaving any clue by which an inquisitive outsider might track him.

  9

  For five years Mike waited, and both men profited. Mike found another partner and another sponge-diving boat. He equipped it with the best Siebe–Gorman diving gear and compressors. He even did a good deal of sponge diving with his little team.

  His real work, however, was to identify and clear ancient wrecks. Business was not startling. Few treasure hunters get rich. Mike made a living only because he was careful. He worked deep and was fanatical about safety. Most of his finds were amphorae, which fetched a standard price on Krassnik’s market and were transferred to his yacht once every month during the summer.

  Only once did Mike make a major find. He raised a collection of a dozen figurines, each only a few inches high, whose heads were smooth, without eyes or mouths, but with noses. The arms were held in a curious way against their chest. Krassnik became extremely interested when he saw them, and Mike ended up $10,000 richer.

  In the winter Mike spent time in England researching new equipment. In 1953 he acquired one of the first commercial scuba apparatuses from the newly formed British Sub-Aqua Club.

  During all this time he had no idea how Krassnik made his real money. Clearly antiquities were just a sideline, a way of keeping friends happy and buying himself status. There was no clue to his activities aboard the Argo that Mike ever saw when he went aboard. Occasionally she would lie up for weeks, tended only by her crew, with no sign of Krassnik, who worked from a hotel suite and spent a good deal of time elsewhere.

  Mike’s situation was intensely galling. He dared not return to England to plan the realization of his own long-standing ambition. He was all too aware that a premature move would invite Krassnik’s revenge and ensure that there would never be any chance of a return to the Edinburgh. Besides, he was not yet ready to abandon his dream of Sandra. She was in fact now married with a child and another on the way, living in a charming brownstone in the best part of Boston, but Krassnik had no intention of destroying Mike’s idealized longings with cold reality.

  Mike’s frustration was made worse by the knowledge that Krassnik himself would be extremely interested in the Edinburgh. He might even back him. But the idea of approaching his gross, devious and vicious employer as a potential partner struck Mike as plain stupid. He couldn’t trust him. He would merely be sticking his head further into the noose. No: he had to escape from Krassnik. And that demanded information.

  In late 1954 Mike made his move. He bought a small radio transmitter. He experimented with it by listening in on the café downstairs. By later standards there was nothing small about it, but it was neat enough to smuggle aboard the Argo on one of his monthly summer visits to hand over his undersea findings.

  He was shown as usual into Krassnik’s cabin, and was left alone pending his arrival. He took the opportunity to remove the radio from the bag containing his findings, and place it in an air vent above the porthole.

  That evening, in his room a mile away from the Argo’s mooring, he tuned in. The device worked well enough, and for several evenings he listened to talk, in both English and Greek, about politics, social life, finance. The information was mostly meaningless or useless, since it was extremely disjointed as a result of the speakers moving round the cabin or continuing the conversation elsewhere.

  Then, suddenly, jackpot.

  On this particular evening, at about half past nine, Krassnik had received two, perhaps three, men on board. As they came into the Argo’s main cabin, the conversation began inconsequentially with an offer of coffee and mutters of assent.

  ‘A moment . . .’ There was the sound of a door opening and shutting, then: ‘Very well, we are agreed.’ Krassnik must have now been sitting at his desk, directly beneath the transmitter, for his voice reached Mike clearly. He was referring to some previous discussion: ‘Colonel Nasser wished me to make preliminary contacts. These should lead to your country’s acquisition of a substantial supply of new weaponry in the near future. You will tell the colonel that I shall specifically not speak to my American or British sources.’

  More murmurs of assent.

  ‘May I ask, gentlemen, what assurance I have that your colonel is to be trusted? I am aware, of course, that Mr Naguib has resigned as prime minister; but Mr Naguib is still president. Am I to understand that the deputy prime minister is solely responsible for your country’s new policy as regards arms purchases?’

  There were some words, of whi
ch Mike could catch only: ‘Muslim brotherhood . . . enemies of Egypt . . . little information . . . immediate action.’

  ‘Very well. Since I need not at this stage place firm orders, I believe I can take the risk. I happen to know . . .’ At this point Krassnik himself must have turned or moved, for his voice died to a murmur before resuming: ‘. . . on offer by Czechoslovakia. It is widely known that such arms are of Russian . . . see what can be done . . .’

  The talk became broken as Krassnik moved about, then more general, concerning travel arrangements and dates and venues of future meetings. By now Mike’s attention had wandered.

  So: it was arms dealing. That made sense, for it was well known that Israel and the Arabs were arming themselves as fast as they could, from every available source. Even before the 1948 war Israel had acquired a motley collection of weapons from America’s Second World War scrap heaps. She had also acquired Mauser rifles, Avia fighters and modified Messerschmitts from Czechoslovakia. Thereafter, she had bought small arms from Belgium, machine-guns from Spain, American tanks. In 1953 France’s Dassault company offered Ouragan and Mystère fighters to Israel, a deal that was partly financed by the USA. Meanwhile both Britain and America supported the Arabs with arms, thus attempting to preserve a rough balance in the Middle East.

  Nasser’s rise to power changed this. In 1954 he was yet to emerge as Egypt’s strong man. Suez was still two years away. But he was already in a position of considerable – if unconsolidated – influence, and determined to avoid automatic alignment with the West. During 1954 he began to seek arms from elsewhere. Hence his interest in Soviet arms, and hence Krassnik’s involvement at this delicate stage in the negotiations.

  Mike knew none of the details and was no political expert, but it was clear to him that Krassnik, as an American, was skating on thin ice. To act as an agent for Russian arms was surely treasonable. Was that bloke McCarthy still accusing everyone of being Commies? And wasn’t an accusation like that enough to ruin a career? What would be the result if the American police, the FBI or the State Department, or whatever, knew one of their nationals was buying arms from the Russkies and selling them to Egypt, just when Egypt was kicking the Yanks in the teeth?